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“It Was Dead Meat, My Friend. It Was Dead Meat”
From the mouth of my Paki cab-driving colleague
I can’t remember his name. But just for fun, let’s call him Pakman. Because he came from Pakistan. Ya feel me?
Pakman and I worked at Mark and Ritchie’s taxi garage, driving the dynamic duo’s cabs on the night shift.
Mark and Ritchie were the oddest couple ever. Mark was a diminutive Jewish man. Ritchie was a Central Casting type Italian wise guy who’d grown up with Mark in the bowls of Brooklyn.
My guess is that in their youth, Mark stood up to a bully while Ritchie watched and fell in love with the little dude. That could be the only explanation for why they were friends and business partners.
One day while bouncing a rubber ball against the wall as I waited with Ritchie for my broken-down cab to be fixed, he told me he’d been arrested 19 times. You get the idea. He was a born hoodlum and proud of it.
Back to Pakman. Pakman was a work animal. I’d seen his trip card and all the fares he’d ferried the previous night.
This guy worked even harder than I did!
Immigrants! What can I say? They have no problem with long hours. Pakman was a monster. He’d work the entire 12-hour shift every night on a 6-day lease.
